The Rake’s Christmas Wager (Spinsters and their Suitors #2)

Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

L ily stared at Lord Brinton, her heart pounding. She had heard poetry recited countless times, but never with this sincerity. His words felt like more than just a performance; they felt like a glimpse into his soul. The room seemed smaller, quieter, as if the world outside had faded, leaving only the two of them in the firelight’s gentle glow.

When he finished, a soft silence hung between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire. His words lingered, their meaning settling over her like a warm, steady weight. It was as if, in that moment, he had peeled back a layer of himself, showing her something she hadn’t expected.

“That was beautiful,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Thank you,” he replied, meeting her gaze.

She hesitated, then confessed, “I don’t think I’ve ever quite understood poetry in that way before.”

He smiled slightly. “Poetry can reveal our lives, layer by layer. Life is a masquerade,” he said, his tone quiet. “When the festivities end, when the masks fall away, that’s when we truly see each other.”

She glanced at the book. “Which page number is that on? I should like to reread it.”

A faint blush colored his face as he looked down. “It’s my own,” he admitted. “You won’t find it in that book.”

“You were searching for a poem, though,” she said, studying him.

He shrugged lightly. “There are plenty of wonderful poems worth reciting. But sometimes, writing my own is the only way to make sense of my own thoughts.”

Lily swallowed, feeling as if a light had been cast on something she hadn’t noticed before. “I think I’ve misjudged you, Lord Brinton.”

Surprise flickered in his eyes, mingling with a trace of hope. “How so?”

She took a steadying breath, heart pounding. “I’ve let my own wounds color the way I saw you. I thought you were insincere, that your charm was just a mask. But I see now that I was wrong.”

Lord Brinton held her gaze, his quiet intensity drawing her in, and she felt the weight of her words settle between them like a fragile truce.

She took a breath and continued, “I apologize for doubting you. For misjudging you. You’ve been nothing but sincere with me, and I ... I’m sorry it took so long for me to see that.”

He was silent, watching her as though searching for the right words. Then, with a gentle, almost sad smile, he said, “You’ve nothing to apologize for, Miss Ashworth. You had every right to be cautious.” He paused, and she saw a flicker of emotion in his eyes—understanding, maybe even empathy. “But sometimes people surprise you.”

A tightness formed in her throat at his words, and her chest tightened with regret. She had spent so long guarding herself, so sure she knew what kind of man Lord Brinton was. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

The warmth of the fire cast soft shadows across the room, amplifying the vulnerability of the moment. Lord Brinton had given her more than words tonight—he had given her a glimpse of his true self.

And, for the first time, Lily felt the need to do the same.

She hesitated, her fingers resting lightly on the arm of her chair, her thoughts swirling as she considered how much to share. It wasn’t easy for her to speak of the past, especially not of the wounds she had carefully concealed. But there was something about Lord Brinton—something about the way he looked at her, patient and steady—that gave her courage.

She could now see the difference between Lord Brinton and Francis, the man that she’d thought herself in love with all those years ago. Their similarities began and ended with poetry, and she’d assigned the worst of everything to Lord Brinton.

How wrong she’d been. She’d equated reciting poetry to being a rake. But now she could clearly see that not everyone who loved poetry was trying to use the words to manipulate others. Her apology she’d given him wasn’t enough. She had to explain why she’d been the way she had. Lord Brinton deserved to know.

“Thank you for sharing your poem with me,” she said softly. “It’s given me much to think about.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Ashworth,” he replied gently.

Lily glanced down, steadying herself. “There’s something you should know,” she began, her voice barely a whisper. “About why I’ve been so cautious with you.”

Lord Brinton’s eyes softened, his attention fully on her. “You can tell me anything, Miss Ashworth.”

She took a breath and nodded. “It was some years ago, at a house party. It was summer then, a lively occasion. And there was a particular gentleman there. He was everything charming and eloquent. Poetry was his form of address and speech. Everything was flowery and so full of promises.” She smiled faintly, almost bitterly. “Or so I thought.”

Lord Brinton’s gaze held steady, as if he understood without her needing to say more.

“He recited poetry constantly,” she continued, her fingers clutching her skirt. “Every conversation felt laced with promises, and I thought I was falling in love. I hadn’t experienced anything like it before. I believed it was real.”

Lord Brinton’s expression grew more serious, but he didn’t interrupt, letting her tell her story at her own pace.

“When the house party ended, I came home convinced he would propose. I didn’t socialize that summer; I waited and waited, convinced he’d come calling to ask for my hand.”

Her laugh was soft, a little bitter. She shook her head. “My sister became engaged that summer, and I didn’t mind her being celebrated first. I believed my time would come soon enough.”

Lord Brinton’s jaw tightened slightly, a shadow passing over his face.

“But then ...” Her voice wavered, but she pressed on. “Three months passed, and I hadn’t heard a word. No letter, no call. I finally attended an assembly—and that’s when I saw him. Standing arm-in-arm with another woman.”

Henry’s brows drew together, but he stayed silent.

“They were engaged,” she said quietly. “I overheard her talking, laughing with her friends about how he had won her over with the poetry he’d recited to her. She laughed as she recited the lines.” She shook her head. “It was the same poem he had recited to me on several occasions. I realized then that I’d been nothing more than practice. He had never cared for me. He was just charming.”

His hands tightened on his knees, his voice low. “He used you. That’s unforgivable.”

Lily shook her head, her voice softer. “I don’t know if it’s unforgiveable. But it hurt. More than I could have imagined. And after that, I lost interest in the social games—the endless flattery, the false promises.” She sighed, gathering her composure. “By the time my younger sisters entered society, I was done with it.”

He met her gaze, his expression tender and filled with understanding. “That’s why you’ve been so cautious with me.”

She nodded, feeling a weight lift as she confessed. “Not just you—everyone. I learned not to trust easily. And when I saw how easily you charmed others, how naturally the words seemed to come…” She paused, embarrassed. “I assumed you were just like him.”

Henry exhaled, his gaze unwavering. “An easy conclusion to draw.”

She tried to smile, but her brows drew together. “But I see now it was unfair. You’ve shown me a sincerity I hadn’t anticipated. I owe you my apologies for that. I should never have thought so ill of you.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the fire casting warm light between them. Lily felt the weight of her confession dissolve, the past loosening its grip. For the first time, she felt she could let it go, that it no longer had to define her view of others—or of herself.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, her voice barely audible.

Henry shook his head slowly, his gaze filled with warmth. “You needn’t apologize, Miss Ashworth. You were hurt. It doesn’t fade overnight.”

“I don’t want it to affect me any longer. I’m done with that way of thinking.”

His smile held a quiet admiration. “That’s brave of you.”

She met his gaze, her heart swelling with an unexpected warmth. In front of her sat a man she could trust, a man unlike anyone she’d ever met. “You make me want to believe that not everyone wears a mask.”

A soft chuckle escaped him, but his eyes remained serious. “We all wear masks, Miss Ashworth. But the right person will take the time to look beyond them.”

A gentle, tentative smile spread across her lips. “Perhaps I’m beginning to grow fond of poetry after all, or at least understand it better.” Lily’s heart swelled with emotion as she met his gaze, her chest tightening at the way he looked at her. In front of her was someone she could fully trust, someone who was completely different from Francis or any other rake.